My Prerogative
by The USS Ficcelsior
Summary: A heartwarming alternate ending to the first episode.


" _Worry about saving yourself, old man."_

\- Tommy, _Mighty Morphin Power Rangers_

* * *

The motorcycle smashed through the fifth-story hotel window with the speed of a silver bullet. Madoka launched off of the bike and landed with a cartwheel in front of a bed. She was grasping a crossbow in one hand and a grenade in the other. On her back, she was carrying a cluttered bundle of rifles, hatchets, and spears. She had a crucifix and a flask of holy water stuffed in there somewhere.

She looked up from where she was crouching. Her beautiful granddaughter was standing there waiting for her, flourishing like an innocent lotus in the dim glow of the nightstand lamp, hands patiently sitting on her hips.

"You don't have to be so dramatic, grandma," Yohko grumbled. "I handled all of the icky stuff on my own."

Madoka was shocked. She was expecting to burst in at the last second when she was needed the most. She had images in her mind of a screaming helpless girl trapped underneath the writhing tentacles of a demon, or engulfed in ghostly shadows ready to rend her tender flesh. Instead, Madoka had the irking feeling she had just missed something important.

"How can you even slink around in that dress on your own?" Madoka stammered in confusion. "I haven't started training you yet!"

Yohko was in her Devil Hunter form. Sort of. She was wearing a sleek black qipao showing off the delicate conditioning of her legs and arms. An icon of a single round eye decorated the soft protrusion of her chest where the traditional yin-yang should be. Those cute hair loops she still had braided around her head were the only part of her that didn't seem out of the ordinary.

Madoka instantly became cautious.

The bed beside Yohko rustled quietly in the dark. Osamu was lying there in a near-motionless stupor. The tangled sheets were pulled up to his bare waist.

"What's happened to him?" Madoka asked with a concerned look.

"Oh, Osamu?" Yohko smiled cheerfully. "He'll be fine. Unsealing Pacts just take a lot out of him."

Osamu slowly rolled onto his other side. He mumbled incoherently in his sleep.

"Ughm. Do your jiggly thing some more, Yohko…"

Madoka's eyes shifted suspiciously between Yohko in front of her, Osamu curled on the bed, and back to Yohko.

"No," Madoka said. The fear was rising in her voice. "I got here as soon as I knew you were in trouble. You didn't…"

Yohko tilted her head and shot her grandmother a teasing smirk. Madoka noticed a slightly succubusimal gleam in Yohko's eyes. A few drops of Osamu slipped down the curves of her creamy inner thigh and left a tiny white puddle between her jet black slippers.

She did.

Madoka cobbled together a rough timeline in the dusty old corners of her mind. Osamu is cursed by that slimy witch posing as a school principal. The curse makes him fixated on getting Yohko between the sheets so he can soil her candidacy and strip the Devil Hunters of another successor. Yohko doesn't know any better; she was always a romantic airhead and those two were already making oogly eyes at each other. Sleeper agent ends up sleeping with the agent, neither is fully conscious of what the other one really is. Yohko succumbs to Osamu's curse in the forbidden dance of lust at the same time she's blossoming into the next Devil Hunter. Nasty combination.

"Yohko, listen to me!" Madoka said. "It's too late to help you become a Devil Hunter, but I can still make you human again!"

"Hmm. I'm not sure," Yohko playfully thought out loud. "Having this special time with Osamu really opened my eyes. I think I'd rather slaughter mortals than be one."

Yohko gazed at the dark ceiling as she scratched her chin, shaking her head in thought, shifting her hips through the ripples of her sleek black gown.

"Yeah. Mortal Hunter Yohko," she said with a mischievous smile. "That has a nice ring to it."

She lifted her right arm straight out at her side. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword as it materialized out of flecks of darkness in the air next to her.

Like Yohko herself, the mystical weapon had become a perversion of everything it was supposed to represent. The blade was shaped more like a butcher's cleaver than a graceful saber, with a brutal edge that had been scorched away in the furnace of Hell. Anything unfortunate enough to be struck by such a weapon would be inflicted with unimaginable disease and fiery torment. A fitting tool of destruction for a fallen she-demon.

Yohko's eyes narrowed toward the old and retired Devil Hunter in small, snake-like slits.

"And I think I'll start with you, granny," she whispered menacingly.

Yohko raced toward her grandmother like a weightless shadow. Madoka pointed and locked her crossbow out of instinct. Yohko's feral grinning visage disappeared from her sight the instant she blinked.

A second shadow emerged out of the nothingness behind Madoka. She turned to see the outline of her granddaughter's hair braids twirling behind her, followed by the edge of the sword swinging down on her. Yohko's sword slashed through Madoka's shoulder and into her elderly ribcage, mercilessly tearing her apart like the broken veil of Yohko's maidenhood.


End file.
